


A Living Thing

by fightingfairywoman



Category: Midnight Feast
Genre: Anorexia Recovery, Eating Disorders, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Home for Christmas, Martina Evans, Memories, Midnight Feast - Freeform, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 06:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13969518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingfairywoman/pseuds/fightingfairywoman
Summary: It wasn't going to be easy. Trying to be natural. It was like the future. Fairly spooky. Maybe brilliant.In theory, Grace should have moved on by now. The worst is behind her. Enough years have passed for it to be a distant memory. It's natural to forget.There will still be reminders. Between the brilliant bits.





	A Living Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot I wrote several years ago for an Irish novel called Midnight Feast, by Martina Evans. Set in an Irish convent school, it depicts the intense relationship between two girls and their eating disorders. I've tried to capture Grace's voice and Evans' style, which is why the wording and sentence structure are different from my usual writing.
> 
> 'Natural' is a word Grace uses in the book to describe her idea of recovery: mortification of the flesh is a central driving force for her eating disorder, and to be natural is to reject that.
> 
> The full flashbacks are my own writing, but the memory she is trying to suppress in the present day (text aligned right) is quoted directly from the book; it took place after Colette's funeral, when someone privately explained to Grace what had really happened in her last days.
> 
> Contains spoilers and an emetophobia warning.

This winter the heating was broken. I'd gone back home to spend the holidays with my mother.

The cold was like a virus. It got into my veins. I imagined it, dark blue and glittering ominously, sliding through my system. Like a living thing.

'You must help me. Look at me, I'm barely capable,' my mother bleated. She looked so old this year, with dark grooves under her eyes, and her withered hands on the handle of the pot. Her hair was still immaculate. Up in that bun.

'Delia's been such a dear, but I can't ask everything of her, she is our guest. You simply have to help me tonight! I can't do it without you, you know.' She sighed loudly. The record warbled from the other room, its melody scratchy. She'd put on cheery Christmas songs, but I knew it would be no use. She always cried anyway, once Christmas rolled around.

I curled around my mug, trying to ward off the horrible shivers. I had a blanket round me. It was grey and made of felt. My mother was wearing a thick fleecey thing. She was still elegant, somehow, even in that. It came up high at the neck, hiding the jowls that had been inching down from her chin slowly over the past three years. She bustled around the kitchen, taking things from the cupboards, then the fridge, then the cupboards again, forgetting things each time. If Delia were here, she would cry from the inefficiency. My mother used to cook so well, but now she just didn't seem to have to heart. She was losing motivation, it seemed, as she got older. Ever since I left Mayo.

I could hear Delia upstairs, unpacking. My mum suddenly said 'Ah!' and threw up her hands, her forehead puckering dramatically. 'I knew I had forgotten something! I must run to the shop before it shuts. I'll be just a moment, Grace, darling - get this in the oven, please, will you?' She gave me a pleading look, turned the tap on with her elbow, rinsed her hands and dashed out. I heard the front door slam and the roar of the car engine, and sighed. This was just like her. Leaving it all to me at the last minute.

The chair scraped loudly against the floor when I got up, making me wince. Gingerly, I shuffled up to the counter, gripping the thin blanket around my shoulders. I set down my cup and took a deep breath. Through the bite of the frigid air, I could catch that smell. Raw meat. She was making steak.

_'Raw meat?'  
'Yes, that was part of the thing.'_

They thought I had just forgotten about it all. Once I'd put on the weight, and kept it on. No one asked any more. They were too busy lamenting over my future. When I didn't go to university straight away. But when I got out of Mayo, it was like I could breathe again. Like a hand had been gripped round my throat before, without me even noticing. I could do whatever I wanted, and I did. Moving far away, until I caught my breath. But now I was breathing in that smell again. Feeling the cold. And it was like being right back there.

  
  


_The cigarette smoke made me cough. 'Do I really have to smoke?' I said nervously. If just being around her doing it made me cough like this, I hated to think what it would be like to smoke one all myself. The cold was hard enough to handle when it hit my lungs._

_She blew a thin stream at me, pursing her lips. A kiss of smoke. 'No.' She put the cigarette to her lips again, sucked in deeply while watching me intensely. Her eyes were magnetic. I couldn't look away, although the smoke filled my nose and stung my eyes. 'But it will help. And if you're serious about staying beautiful for me, you'll want all the help you can get.' She pinched my arm. I blushed and pulled away. Not saying anything, not this time. But I must have looked hurt. She softened._

_'You know I love the way you look, I'm only teasing,' she said, blowing another smoke kiss, away from my face this time. She let go of my arm and ran her fingers over it instead, a soft caress to follow the pinch. She stroked from my shoulder down to the crook of my elbow. As her fingers reached the crease in my arm, I closed my eyes, holding my breath, a pleasant shiver running through me. Not like the shivers from the cold. I opened my eyes and she was smiling triumphantly, shaking the ash off of her cigarette. I shivered again, but this time from the temperature. She raised one of her pointed eyebrows. Colette liked to pretend she didn't feel the cold._

_'You'll have to get used to it, if you really want to lose weight,' she told me. 'Cold. And heat.' As though to make a point, she looked at her cigarette, which was almost finished, grinned, and held out her arm. I started to say, 'What are you - ' but she was already doing it: stubbing it out on the soft white flesh of her forearm, right above the elbow. I stared in horror. Frantic words rose in my throat. I frowned, and swallowed my questions, clenching my teeth tight to stop them chattering. She was smirking at me. 'To mortify the flesh,' she said, putting on her commanding nun's voice, 'is to turn away from earthly things, towards God.' I laughed nervously. She threw the stubbed-out cigarette to the floor. It had left an angry mark on her pale skin, at which she squinted, then poked experimentally. She shrugged, stroking a finger over it. Then she smiled and took my arm, stroking a finger over the same spot on me. Sliding it up to the crease of my elbow. I leaned against the wall, my eyes drifting half-shut, and she stroked my hair._

  
  


I pushed the image from my mind, and turned away, towards the half-chopped vegetables, which needed cutting and rinsing. I took off the blanket and laid it over a chair back. Taking a deep breath, through my mouth this time, I set to work. The cold, dry air chapped my lips, but it was better than smelling that smell. There were so many smells that should have reminded me of her. Jasmine, frangipani. All those scents we used to have. But only one still brought back such memories. Raw meat. I couldn't look at it, either. Not without picturing her.

  
  


_When I ran my finger down her back, it bumped over each bone in her spine. She was so proud of that. She made me do it again and again, when we spent nights together. She would check mine too sometimes, counting how many bones she could feel. It was never enough. Not for me. But she didn't really care. As long as she could kiss me._

_Colette's kisses left my lips dry. Chapped. Our lips were always chapped; even after kissing they stayed dry. The cold would give mine cracks, and Colette liked to catch my lip in her teeth, and dart her tongue out to wet my dry skin. She'd run her tongue over the cracks enviously, then move on. It distracted her too much. She would put a hand at my waist, first, then move it slowly down, until it found the hem of my nightdress. She tasted sour from the acid and bitter from the coffee. Often, from her bitten lips and weak gums, there was also the metallic tang of blood._

  
  


Maybe I was imagining it. I pushed the thoughts down. It wasn't good for me. It wasn't natural. It wasn't easy, trying to be natural. Not when my mind seemed to be such an unnaturally twisted thing. Always wanting to suffer. To do the things that were worst for me. It was a battle all the time, not giving in. I picked up the knife and grabbed a carrot, and started slicing it as though it had done me some kind of personal harm.

It was nice, though. Not being tired all the time. Not being cold all the time. Except right now. The cold was doing something to my mind. Taking me back. I shivered, and put more force into the knife, so it slammed against the wooden cutting board loudly with each stroke, leaving little dents. When it wasn't cold like this, I still appreciated feeling well, even though it's been nearly ten years since the worst time, when I had to leave Mayo to be put in hospital.

I've kept out of hospital for the most part. Just the occasional short stay, a handful of times since I got my leaving cert. Once it was my mother who put me there, but the other times I went myself. It was better than bothering my mother with it. She was always so ashamed. As though I was discrediting her by being ill.

Finishing the vegetables, I turned away from the counter, closing my eyes to try to delay the inevitable. Trying not to breathe too deeply.

_'...her face smeared with blood. Food all over the floor. Food and blood all over her hair...'_

I would eat it if it was cooked, so I couldn't have got out of it by saying I was a vegetarian. Mostly I didn't eat it on my own. Only if someone else was cooking. Or if I bought it at a restaurant. Cooked already.

_'...it was a kind of primitive thing. I don't think you're like that.'_

Primitive. The smell of the blood filled my nose, although I wasn't breathing it in deliberately. My body did it without asking. Wanting me to suffer, as usual. Wanting me to remember being so primitive.

  
  


_I didn't like when she talked about sex, no matter how nice it felt to be together. It felt so carnal. When we were hungry and light and embracing, I felt superhuman. Immaterial. Her dirty words just brought me down to a mundane level. Worse than that - a primal level._

_'Don't say it like that,' I muttered darkly. She tossed her hair, smiling wickedly and licking her lips._

_'But I have to,' she purred, leaning back over me and breathing in my ear. 'How else can we break your innocent little shell, hmm?' I turned my head away slightly, the corners of my mouth turning down. She snorted. 'God. You're so fucking pure.' She pushed herself up, jumped off the bed and flounced to the window, drawing a cigarette from the box on the sill and lighting it moodily. She faced the window, so that she was silhouetted against the silvery midmorning light._

_'You know you have to give in sometime. You can't just ignore it. It won't work. You'll do it anyway,' she called, not looking back at me._

  
  


That was the whole point, though. Not giving in to what you felt you had to do. Because you didn't have to do it anyway, no matter how much you felt it. I had once told myself that when I was tempted to have a break-out, to sneak away from confession and go to the sweet shop. Later I told it to myself when I felt fit to burst from a single slice of toast in the mornings, praying to be sick of my own accord so I wouldn't be responsible for undoing all my hard work at getting well.

_'...used to lock Colette in her room to stop her vomiting. She'd do it anyway. And a few times - '_

I knew what it felt like, to desperately wish you didn't want to do something. Doing it anyway.

_'...a few times, she ate - '_

Like now. I was beating back the memories like they were a swarm of insects. Because I wanted to leave it all behind me, but at the same time, I wanted to remember.

_' - she ate her own vomit so that she could vomit again.'_

_The walls veered in and out. Colette with her slippery hair covered in food and blood. Colette eating -_

But I was being good. I was being natural. And clean. I'd washed my hands of that for good. I wouldn't let it back into my life. I mustn't. I clenched my chattering teeth and rubbed my hands hard over my arms, trying to get rid of the violent shivers. Trying not to breathe in that smell. Knowing I would have to.

_\- eating her own vomit. Colette who always smelled of Patchouli, Jasmine, Sandalwood, Frangipani or White Musk. Colette who was always having baths._

Because no matter how much you try to keep clean of it, it always comes back. The urge.

I ran from the room, meeting Delia at the bottom of the stairs. 'Delia,' I said, almost like asking a question.

'Grace,' she said in surprise. She wore a heavy brown jumper. A yellow scarf. Her lips were chapped from the cold.

'Delia,' I went on. 'I'm feeling a bit ill. The smell of the meat, it's not doing me good. Could you - '

I drew in a deep breath, savouring the smell of her perfume, clearing my lungs of those memories.

' - if you would, could you take on some of the cooking for a minute, before Mum gets home? She'll only be another minute.' I smiled nervously.

She looked at me curiously, then nodded. 'Of course. You just have a lie down, there.'

I relaxed and gave her a grateful look, and she stepped down so I could climb the stairs. Once she was out of sight I ran up the last few and into my old room. I shut the door with a sigh of relief. Taking a deep breath in and out, I let myself fall face-forward onto the bed, shutting my eyes.

I have tried to be natural. I've simply had to accept that this is what is natural for me. When I couldn't stand to go out with men, I tried replacing the memories of Colette with other women. Never very many. It's not easy around here, but they are there. But I've learned that I can't stand to get too close to people. Not for long. I always break someone's heart. I'm too independent, I suppose. Or maybe I just never really let go.

_'It's desperate, isn't it?'_

Deborah looked nothing like her. I thought that was good. Thought I could just be with Deborah, and forget Colette. Deborah's short reddish hair, her brown eyes, symmetrical dimples - none of it echoed Colette in the least. She was quiet when Colette had been loud, firm when she'd been careless, down-to-earth like I had once been, a lifetime ago. I felt safe, like I'd been drifting before and she had bolted me to the ground. But in time the feelings bled away, and it was like living in an empty shell. A pretty picture. Not a life. And I started to imagine Deborah being louder when she was quiet. Wilder when she was down-to-earth. Careless when she was firm. Self-destructive when she was so natural. So I had to go. Before the memories swallowed me up.

Fiona, I hardly remember. It was very brief. Our relationship. She worked as a receptionist at the clinic they made me go to. To be weighed twice a month. Checked up on. I don't think she ever knew why I was there. I didn't feel like telling her.

We went out for coffee a few times, and when she told me nervously it was the first time she'd had feelings for a woman, I let her love me until she came to understand on her own that I could not love her back. That I am distant, numbed. Cold. It's in my bones.

**Author's Note:**

> This came to an unexpectedly abrupt end when I first wrote it, and I tried at the time (and again, while preparing to upload) to change that, but Grace seems to want to finish the story there.
> 
> If you're interested in reading the book, you can find it in paperback online very cheaply; I can't recommend the ebook, sadly, because for some reason it cuts off before the end. The 'fairly spooky, maybe brilliant' line is the final sentence in the original text.


End file.
